


When Sorrow Sang Softly

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A fic in which Legolas stands up against his father's decisions, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Hobbit, Sexual Hurt/Comfort, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 22:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12118581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Their story from the dreadful aftermath of the Last Alliance to Sauron's rise in Dol Guldur.With a sonorous sigh of exhaustion, Thranduil closed his eyes again. “I have no strength left to fight, Legolas. I wish I had, I wish I had fought long ago to the bitter end.” Legolas, leaning over Thranduil’s bed, smoothed a hand over his father’s forehead. The skin was clammy and cold to the touch, worse than it had been before. “Malice spreads through the earth in the south. It is gathering its strength and draws closer with every day that passes.”





	1. Prologue - The Elvenking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maitimiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maitimiel/gifts).



**When Sorrow Sang Softly**

*****

**Prologue – The Elvenking**

_‘Whispers dance through the enchanted forest whilst strange voices sing, accompanied by the roaring laughter of the wind catching itself in the branches. Tales tell that he wanders the forest on bare feet, clad in white robes that dance about his body in the blowing winds, a crown of ivory upon his head. They call the forest enchanted, and it truly is. However, few know the truth about its king, though tales of him were wide-spread; a beard-less giant who lures little children into the vastness of his realm to satisfy his lust for revenge – or worse: to quench his unnatural desires, before he sacrifices them on wooden stakes. Lies, each one. None of it is true, and no matter how often you encounter any of these, you must not listen to such ridiculousness. Never.”_

_‘I won’t.’_

_‘Good. I must bid you caution, though: a strong magic prevails in Greenwood the Great, ancient as the forest itself. The streams and rivers that run through the forest like veins nurture the earth and its people.’_  

 _‘So this is no_ _fictional_ _tale, then? About the king and_ _his_ _land I mean?’_

_‘Indeed it is not. No other being alive is as connected with the earth as King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm is. The forest is him, and he is the forest – they one, inseparable as long as Arda prevails. If either dies, the other has to follow, one way or the other. Once, long ago, malice spread through the enchanted forest, poisoning its rivers and streams and forcing the Elves to migrate further into the forest._

_‘The malice grew and cast its shadow upon the face of the Elvenking, weakening him so grievously that his son led their people towards the Black Mountains. Magic concealed the state of his mind whenever one of us spoke to him, casting an illusion of beauty upon his features, where in truth sorrow reigned. It was not blindness that made him tarry, it was memory, dreadful and threatening, the sickening forest draining all energy from its king. In the hostility of Mordor, Thranduil had lost everything that was dear to him, except his only son. His father was assaulted and slain, his wife captured, never to return. He was young then, a prince who had never seen the horrors of war, growing up in luxury at King Thingol’s court, and later in Amon Lanc, living a relatively carefree life. Ash was the only crown he wore the day when he took up his father’s rule, a crown Thranduil had never wanted, though many say it was not so. They mistook, and still mistake his heart’s wish to not let the past repeat itself, the will to protect his people seen as arrogance, the illusion he dons as unhealthy pride when in truth he protects himself with it.’_

_‘What do you advise me?’_

_The answer was cryptic. ‘Apart from not listening to those tales told in taverns and ale-houses? Not much. Some things are more familiar than others. Be yourself and not overly nosey – a contradiction in itself, I know - but keep out of business that is not your own. The forest has its secrets and so does its king.’_

_‘I shall.’_

_During all the years he wandered the earth striving for a better future he did, but he never stopped wondering why._


	2. Strangers in a Strange Land

**Strangers in a Strange Land**

Dust and ashes rained from the bleak sky, and poisonous fumes wafted through the air the day the diminished army of the Elves of the Woodland Realm had departed the plains of Dagorlad, a treeless wasteland bereft of beauty and light. Although in the end, the Last Alliance of Men and Elves had been victorious, victory had come at a bitter cost – too many were slain, great kings and common soldiers alike, the losses beyond count. With the old king slain, the crown had passed to Thranduil, king Oropher’s only son, who had in his carefree nature always thought his father would live forever. Leading had not come naturally to him in a time when he was consumed by grief; as best as he could he led the army of survivors back to safety, his son riding at his side. Home and the safety of Greenwood the Great was what spurred them onwards, what made Thranduil carry himself with pride as long as watchful eyes rested upon him.

In the privacy of his tent, many things were different. The mask of strength shattered into a thousand pieces the moment the flap fell shut behind him, his false impassiveness giving way to rivers of tears. Nobody ever saw the true face of Thranduil, tear-stricken and swollen, except his son. Loss had united them. Hunger and freezing cold had brought father and son closer than they already were – closer than perhaps was wise. A father and wife to mourn, a grandfather and mother, each and every one well-beloved and cherished above all else.

Tears mingled with the ever pouring rain that plastered Legolas’s blond hair against his head, tears that would run down his red cheeks day and night. Comfort was sparse and hard to find in such hostile conditions. They were strangers in strange lands, roaming vagabonds, if not beggars. From time to time he forced a smile, but he looked anxious nevertheless and in contrast to his father he never even tried to conceal his misery from anyone. He easily could take such liberties, Legolas well knew, due to not having any responsibilities towards his people. At night, misery grew and became the demon he was unable to fight. The screams of the fallen haunted him, their lifeless eyes stared at him so that one night he slipped into his father’s tent, surprised as he was warmly welcomed. For hundreds of years Legolas has not shared his parent’s bed, not even a room at night most of the time, and yet there he was, crying at his father’s shoulder until no tears would come anymore.

Night after night they cried in each other’s arms, comforted each other with words and touches, while silence reigned during the day. His father’s affection was the beacon in a life of darkness, the last vestige of hope to keep the emotions that threatened to consume him at bay, although over the course of time, Legolas grew afraid that he drained all remaining energy from his father’s body. When he slept and found peace at last like a cradled child, Thranduil lay restlessly besides him, and although the King pretended it was not so, he grew weaker by the day. The circles around his eyes grew, proportional to the insomnia that plagued him so. Legolas offered to stop his nightly visits entirely but Thranduil would not hear any of it, claiming that it was what kept him alive.

During the never-ending ride, Legolas had time in abundance to ponder his thoughts on the matter: what if it was true?

What if those words hadn’t just been a common phrase, but meant what it implied, a threat far greater than Legolas’s own sorrows. It wasn’t unheard of that hurt and loss that went beyond the imaginable caused injuries severe enough that life itself became bleak and too heavy to bear. The shaking body late at night, the circles beneath his eyes – it well could be, and in silence, Legolas vowed to do everything to chase away the threat of fading.

And so they drew comfort from each other, enjoyed touches that went far beyond what was considered normal affection between father and son. Lips brushed over tear-stained cheeks, fingers over skin that wasn’t scarred but marred deeper than any blade ever could until finally exhaustion exacted its toll and slumber enveloped Legolas’s body. 

Day after day dawn separated them, the rays of the sun cutting through their tangled bodies like swords and they rode side by side in silence, lost in thoughts and grief that were entirely their own. Of late the weather did nothing to lift the survivors’ spirits: cold winds blew and rain poured down on them, so that all rode hunched and miserable.

Legolas thought then of his mother, the day she had found him in the forest, soaking wet.

 _‘Why would you do that?’_ she had asked, genuine concern written across her face.

 _‘Because I like the feel of it on my skin,’_ the young boy had said, pouting, words upon which she had laughed, a sound like chiming bells, followed by an intense hug.

Tears mingled with the raindrops upon Legolas’s cheeks as he rode on and ever on, waiting for the party to finally call it a night, exhaustion written across his face. More than ever he was in need for the strangest sort of comfort.

Just as day separated them, dusk united them as did the rain tapping against the fabric of their shared tent. Provisions were sparse, wine sparser still, and comfort hard to come by – nevertheless magic sprung to life as wet fabric fell to furs one by one and the sounds of the night chased away Legolas’ never-ending sobs. It had become a routine to feel Thranduil’s shaking fingers against the small of his back, his breath against his damp skin whilst his own shaking hands clutched to whatever he could reach and sorrow became at last easier to bear. Being held like the child he had not been for a long time, it was easy to shut his ears against the voices that kept hunting him: screams and wails, the dreadful sound of dying. It was said that orcs had once been elves, mutilated, marred and bred until they were transformed beyond recognition. Death united them all: no matter if elf or men or orc – the gurgling sound of death was always the same.

The border of Greenwood the Great, its vast expanses and the safety that came with it changed everything and finally spirits rose, for Thranduil most of all. At last, slumber overwhelmed him and for three days he slept without waking once so that Legolas and many others grew alarmed.

All in vain, as it turned. Thranduil’s life had never been in danger.

Even whilst Oropher still lived he had been a child of the forest, drawing energy and peace from the soft moss beneath his bare feet, yet now to Legolas it was as if the soil truly nurtured his father’s turmoiled mind and body. Eventually, the circles around his eyes were gone and the paleness of his skin gave way to a rosy, far healthier color.

That, however, was not all that changed. No matter how often Legolas would ask, Thranduil would not speak about the change in demeanor that was undeniable.

Where comfort had reigned the nights on the harsh road, now a strange coldness began to seep into Legolas’s once heated dreams. The touches were still there on the few occasions they had to build up their tent, those whispered words of night, yet all else was gone, blown away by the cold winds of winter as they approached Amon Lanc and Legolas’s spirits fell. Oropher’s stronghold of dark stone stood solidly atop the hill, grey and glistening in the faint light of the moon.

To reconstruct his kingdom was unsurprisingly Thranduil’s main duty as too many had not returned from Dagorlad, so time for anything else was sparse. For Legolas it was hard to accept that their relationship would become ordinary once more, because that was what Thranduil desired.

For many weeks Legolas had hoped for something that he knew could never be once they were back, and his father was his king foremost. He soon realized and accepted his fate: it must never be.

When new guards and captains were sought to replace all of those who had fallen in battle, Legolas was the first to raise his hand to participate. Not only did he think it was his duty as prince and heir to defend his father’s realm from foes and strangers, he even more hoped to chase his strange desires away while he was gone.

He wasn’t surprised when his father gave his consent; nevertheless it felt as if his heart was torn in two – did his presence matter so little to the one he loved above all else?

For many years his presence in the kingdom was sparse, as week after week he went into the forest and soon far beyond. A quest for happiness, Galion once had said to him with a wink, though both knew it was not so.

When dusk fell, Legolas’ thoughts would often return to those nights he had thought were for comfort alone. Perhaps they were, at least for his father, but strange desires had awoken deep inside him. It had never gone further than kisses and touches, even though he had felt his father’s hardness pressed against his thigh on more than one occasion.

In his dreams, Legolas braced his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder plate, grim and stained with blood, before his hands slipped lower and lower. In reality, he made a little sound and closed his eyes, giving in to his fantasies until nothing else but the sharp thrust of Thranduil’s hips against him was present in his mind.

So it went on, night after night, as he lay dreaming amidst the green bed of moss. Just as the forest nurtured his father’s body and soul, the dreams kept Legolas alive – and called forth an awkward happiness.

With time, Legolas’ journeys became longer and longer, so that often he would be gone from his father’s halls for many months, sometimes even years. He never counted the turns of the moon, embracing the opportunity to learn from others with knowledge far greater than his own. Despite the longing to return, he seldom did and if at last it was inevitable, he tried to avoid Thranduil’s presence at all costs. Much to his surprise (and disappointment) Thranduil always allowed it.

The letter reached him in Lothlórien, written with Galion’s hasty hand. “You must return at once.”

And so Legolas did with heavy heart, wondering what had occurred in a land that didn’t feel like home anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title to be blamed on Billy Joel's song We didn't start the fire.


	3. Reunion

**Reunion**

The heady scent of the great forest that enveloped Legolas the moment he stepped over the invisible border of his father’s kingdom, combined with the pipes and flutes and sounds of merriment in the distance, felt like choking hands around Legolas’ throat. 

That he had been summoned just then, with spring being at its peak, was a most unfortunate coincidence as it was the season of merriment and laughter. It was the weeks of the sacred festivities held deep in the forest, the month of lovers and newly-weds – the month of everything Legolas could not have. 

And so he tarried at the border, despite knowing that he should not.

The air grew warmer each day, filled with the earthy scent of the forest, emanating from stone and soil alike. Hawthorn brandy was brought forth on many occasions replacing wine and mead as he recalled from his blessed childhood days when all was well.

Quite in contrast to his father, who best loved expensive reds, Legolas always tried to keep his amount of drinking reasonable, perhaps because he had seen the effect it had amidst the atrocity of war and disliked the prospect of losing control.

At last, he took the reins of his horse and led it through the whispering forest, the leaf canopy dense above his head. As he ventured farther into the enchanted woods, it began to dawn on him – the time was not only unfortunate, it was most unfortunate as he soon realized as music filled the air as soon as the sun began to set. Turning back and keep hiding was hardly an option, so Legolas went on and on, ignoring the pipes and drums. From time to time he met other elves and although he didn’t feel like drinking, he took the cup offered to him by a young elf nevertheless. Why he had been summoned he still didn’t know, so bracing himself for what might await him Legolas considered as a legitimate excuse.

Although the message said ‘at once’, he again tarried, something that was entirely unlike him. Another couple of hours delay would not make any difference, he decided and sat down beneath a croaking willow, almost as old as the earth itself, and drank to quench his nervousness and fuel his heart’s desires alike. Drums and flutes echoed through the enchanted forest, twining with laughter and cheerful chatter every now and then, and he was content to simply listen and watch the dancers from afar. He had no ambitions to partake in the rites celebrated solely by the elves of the Woodland Realm and odd as it might be, he did not begrudge the other’s their newly found happiness as they jumped over the fire to the joyful tones of pipes and lyres. All he did, growing sentimental, was watch the turning wheel of stars through the leaf canopy above him, dreaming of what wasn’t his to dream of. Although he wasn’t interested in participating he knotted a little crown of spring flowers and fresh leaves and wove it into his hair.

He knew his father had taken lovers in Doriath’s domed halls, long before he had met his future wife, much to the dismay of his own father. Oropher had always tried to chain his wild child by harsh discipline, without much success. What Legolas’ grandfather could not achieve in life, he surely had achieved in death. Mischief and laughter seemed to be lost from Thranduil’s eyes, his joyful spirits diminishing with every day that passed. Surrounded by music, Legolas drifted between sleep and wakefulness, claiming he wasn’t interested whenever he was approached by another.  

Late that night, with the fires already burning low, and laughter dissipating in the vast expanses of the forest, his father, who had  been notably absent during the festivities came to him at last, standing in the darkness like a beacon of light. Moonlight caught itself in the Elvenking’s silver hair, which was not bound or braided, cascading down his shoulders freely. He was beautiful to look upon, he always was, yet somehow he appeared strangely vulnerable, just like on the day the old king had died.

“So my return was not lost upon you,” stated Legolas, trying to keep the emotions out of his voice as he watched Thranduil approach on bare feet. Strange threads of hope began to blossom inside Legolas’ heart, but there were worries, too, and they wrestled with one another until he felt his hands shaking from all the emotions that washed over him.

Thranduil shook his head, silver hair dancing in the moonlight. “Indeed it was not. I sensed your presence the moment you set foot on the soil of my land.” There was a pause in which Legolas was watching him, a silence stretching much too long to ease his nervousness.

“We must speak.” Although almost whispered, the words echoed like thunder in Legolas’ ears, and the sharp edge to Thranduil’s voice took him aback. Legolas could not remember having been addressed in such a tone by his father ever before.

Not that there hadn’t been enough occasions when even Legolas, wild and often insolent, felt it had been due. In fact he had tested his boundaries for many years, whenever it was possible, undeniably tests them still. They had to talk, without doubt, yet Legolas did not know what to say, lips glued by the raging torrents of his mind, enchanted by his father’s beauty.

Much to Legolas’ surprise, Thranduil squatted down in front of him, moonlight revealing the dark circles around his eyes and the paleness of his skin. Not even at the gates of Mordor he had looked so sick and fragile, plain vulnerability shining from his eyes.  “If I have wronged you –”

Legolas’ expression fell. “You never have,” he said, shaking his head so that his long hair flew from one side to the other and the crown of leaves down to the ground. In his blindness, due to his own grief and disappointment, it had never even occurred to him that he was not the only one who struggled with what had happened along the long road. There was only one to blame for his father’s devastating state – and that was himself. Wordlessly, Thranduil lifted the crown from the ground and placed it back onto Legolas’s head.

“I must apologize,” Legolas added then, and he felt as if an apology was due for many things.

The touch against his cheek was fleeting, as was Thranduil’s question. “Then why do you run from these halls, which are meant to be your home?”

As unforgiving the proud king could be, he never was towards his son – Oropher had named it his own son’s greatest weakness.

 _‘I thought I wasn’t welcomed.’_ Legolas didn’t have the heart to admit the lie he has been feeding himself for all the years. Instead, he breathed in deeply, before at last he said, “For reasons I have no words to explain to you.” Never before had he confessed aloud what he was feeling for many years now, not even to himself.

Where he had expected to see repulsion in his father’s face he only saw understanding – and the most insecure smile he had ever seen. “The same reasons for which I would rather keep you locked inside.”

Although his father’s expression was genuine, the doubts persistently spoke to Legolas’s troubled heart. “Are you saying –“

“Yes,” Thranduil affirmed, sitting down on the ground cross-legged, eyes alight with mirthless laughter, with what Legolas had thought had no place anymore in the king’s life. “I might differ from my own father in many things, but not in matters of honesty. I never speak false, least of all to those which are dear to me.” A pause. A sigh. Another touch to Legolas’ cheek, this time far more persistently, so that the tiny hair on his neck began to stand on edge. “I adore you – in a way that most likely is unwise.”

Legolas’ voice was shaking. “You could have told me – then.” The accusation was an unfair one, and he well knew it.

Almost as expected, his father let it slip, explaining with a calmness that was so unlike him and then was not. Thranduil’s temper was ambiguous, as were his morals. “I could have told you, should have told you, I do not deny it. Fear was what drove me, what caused a rift between us, Legolas. The fear towards where the starless road might lead you – us. All I ever did was to protect you, never to hurt you.”

Tears began to well in Legolas’s eyes. In Doriath, the term had become the synonym for illicit desires, originally introduced by the great Thingol himself for those who now long dwelled in the halls of shadow beyond the sea. Occasionally his father and grandfather had talk about it in Amon Lanc, unaware that he was listening behind the long curtains of his father’s chambers. Sometimes, Legolas tried to imagine Doriath with its strange hierarchy, those caverns which must have surpassed his father’s palace by far in its beauty. Not that Amon Lanc wasn’t a beautiful place to live in, but compared to Menegroth it must appear bleak and poor.   

With a confidence that even surprised himself, Legolas asked, “And who should protect you, if not I?”

Thranduil laced his fingers together and rested them in his lap. “No-one who could, is left.”

 _‘My wife.’_ He was not saying that, didn’t have to, as Legolas knew how much his father had loved and cherished his wife.

If asked later, Legolas would be unable to tell who had leaned in first. Sadness and tears had united them in the first place; sadness and tears united them now under a starlit night, with the moment flickering into obscurity as their lips touch for the first time.

Although that night intimacy of all sorts was celebrated in the enchanted forest, too many words were left unsaid for years too long between them and it never went further than kisses and touches and whispered words of adoration beneath the stars. Fireflies danced around their bodies, celebrating their reunion with a magic that was so typical for Greenwood the Great, bright specks of color flittering over crushed flowers as their bodies twined and tangled.

Intimacy of a different sort came later, though not much, in the secrecy of his father’s chambers. At first, there was light, followed by blissful darkness and fire as hands, pale as porcelain, curled into his tunic. It burned through him, ravaging his body in heat and pain, ripping him apart until there was seemingly nothing left of his old self. Thranduil’s body was smooth as marble, as if each dip and contour of his muscle had been chiseled from stone and for many moments, Legolas ran his fingers over each and every spot that piqued his interest.  His surroundings whirled back and forth, overwhelming him by sensations of such intensity Legolas had never experienced before as with such demanding force Thranduil kissed him.

Skin against skin, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, close, and intimate, and breathtakingly arousing. With ease, Thranduil flipped Legolas’s body over, pressing his lips against his body with a growl, before he kissed him where he had never kissed him before. Legolas writhed against the silken bed sheets, and though he tried not to, he rocked his body upwards until he spilled his seed deep down his father’s throat. Much wonders came after that, though, emotions that brought him close to crying, heights he had never dared to tread with any other, and although his aching body long craved sleep and rest, Legolas fought the fatigue with all his heart. If he closed his eyes, perhaps everything was lost; his father coming back to sanity, because as good as it felt, it did feel insane; the magic between them chased away like the sun chases away the banks of fog after a damp night.

It never happened though.


	4. Years of Bliss

**Years of  Bliss**

Waking up curled against his father’s body soon became an all too familiar sensation, just as the bruising marks against his skin and red and swollen lips. Sometimes, he wondered if his father felt the same because Legolas wasn’t known for gentleness and high-collared robes seemed to become the king’s favorite clothes, often the cause for hushed whispers on the quiet.

During the day, when he stood next to his father’s antlered throne he planned and plotted for the night to come, and more often than not, he caught the king being overly distracted whilst holding court. For propriety's sake he remained silent – until they were alone. Many fantasies that each one harbored on his own, sprung to life once night settled over the Woodland Realm.

Not to raise immediate suspicion, Legolas continued his travels to guard the borders of his father’s realm, yet now he was eager – perhaps overly so – to return. As much as he loved to sleep beneath the starlit sky, the mossy ground certainly lacked all amenities Thranduil’s chambers had to offer, and lacked the focus of his desire, too. Over the course of time, the breaks between each one of Legolas’s patrol grew longer and longer as for both separation became unbearable.

It was not so, that Legolas stayed idle whilst he resided in his father’s halls: good advice had always been welcomed at Thranduil’s court and with much relief his father had handed him over the task of keeping correspondence with both Rivendell and Lothlórien.

Thranduil would never admit it, not even to Legolas, that it was a tedious work he truly loathed. Spilling soft-soaping words of ink on parchment when in truth he would much prefer to simply burn the letter. Legolas had all the diplomacy his father lacked, the serenity and patience, too and took great delight in crafting the perfect answer to every letter that arrived. Although he never told his father about it, the letters became longer and often more personal and it somehow felt as if across the distance a friendship began to blossom.

It did not take long until he was invited to Lord Elrond’s valley for a diplomatic visit and for days, Legolas eyes were alight with joy. After the War of the Last Alliance, the Woodland Realm wasn’t on best terms with Imladris, with Thranduil being the cause of it. He had ignored invitation after invitation, no matter how friendly it was placed, being so self-assured that the magic of his forest would keep all enemies at bay and out of his realm.

A treacherous assumption, Legolas had often tried to tell his father that: nobody was invincible, not even Thranduil Oropherion. In his pride, he would not listen, not even to his most trusted advisor and friend.

For many days a quarrel was fought over Lord Elrond’s most recent invitation, and a part of Legolas was certain, jealousy was the driving force behind his father’s arguments. He would not relent so easily: if it was said that the king of the Woodland Realm was stubborn, Legolas could be more stubborn still. Thranduil’s lips twitched, though not in humor.

“No matter how often you say I won’t go, I tell you that I will leave on the morrow.”

And so he did. With the first rays of the sun, Legolas had rode forth, leaving his pouting father behind, most likely cursing in silence. It was many months later that he returned, seemingly grown, with many tales to tell. Legolas knew well that Thranduil would loathe to hear how much he had enjoyed his visit, the company and guidance Lord Elrond had offered, yet he was determined to speak about it nevertheless.

Two words he managed to say before his lips were sealed, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. Although Imladris had offered many sights to feast his eyes upon, and several ambiguous invitations had been brought forth to him, Legolas returned close to sexual starvation to his father’s halls.

Their reunions behind barred doors had always been intense, though intensity reached a new level that night in a way that made it unable for them to leave the bed for many days, hours in which he could retell his journey in great detail. Thranduil’s reaction affirmed that it was indeed jealousy that had him made so reluctant to let Legolas leave. Perhaps it was unwise to take it cheerfully, the way Legolas always did, unwiser still to taunt and never stop until Thranduil finally lost his patience with him. Physical chastisement, something he had not known from his father’s hands until then, was the consequence of his behavior, and although quite playfully carried out, pain sang along his nerves. Yet there was something else, something far greater and far more pleasurable, too. The fact that underneath his dramatic whines he quite enjoyed the rough touches wasn’t lost on Thranduil, whose eyes were alight with mirth.

One day, several weeks after Legolas’s return, when Thranduil had finally stopped taunting and teasing him with what they both equally enjoyed, a dark-haired elf from Rivendell, clad in formal attire, stepped before the Elvenking’s antlered throne. A messenger like any other, Legolas thought at first, because he could not remember having seen that ever-young face before. Legolas’s eyes wandered from the elf’s shaking hands towards his father’s face, perfectly masked in indifference as he listened to a nervous permission to officially court his son. Legolas gasped audibly, nearly choked at his laughter and watched his father all the more.

Courting in the Woodland Realm was different – much more straight-forward, even carnal at times and certainly closer to the Avarin culture than to the High King’s noble courting rites., the very reason why Gil-galad had called them savages on more than one occasion, bringing Oropher’s blood close to boiling. The laws on that matter did differ, too and although marriage was cherished, fleeting nights were not entirely unwelcome for many. Thranduil’s face remained calm all the while the elf spoke to him, yet Legolas saw the burning fires behind his green eyes. Did he truly put such false hopes into the heart of an elf he couldn’t even remember having seen before?

The audience was over quickly, the result both what Legolas had hoped for and expected. The king had dismissed the request immediately.

That night, they were at war, with jealously being the driving force. Their words were feral enough to pierce to the core, to threaten and to promise. Skin against skin, slick and wet from oil and perspiration, glistened in the glowing light and fingernails dug into unmarred skin. They needed each other, just as the moon needs the night, all life the sun and sometimes it was to Legolas that nothing could ever compare to how much he needed his father’s lips upon his own.  Legolas knew that Thranduil could just yank free from the position he was in, with Legolas kneeling above him and holding him in place – he could easily shove him, yet he never did and surrendered, allowing himself to be taken roughly shortly afterwards, quite obscenely with a heaving chest.

 

*

Many months passed without news from either Imladris or Lothlórien after that and never appeared his father’s realm to be more eerily quiet. They rode out into the vast spaces of the forest to hunt, or simply enjoy the amenities of the hot pools, which were not far away, but far enough not to be frequently visited, and slept beneath the stars in a soothing embrace.

One day though, at midday with sunshine so bright that Legolas fretted being forced to remain inside because of his duties, Thranduil stormed into his chambers, a letter with a broken golden seal in hand.

An exaggerated sigh fell from his lips before he spoke. “With what else do these lackwits dare to occupy my sparse time?” he asked, throwing the letter right into Legolas’s lap so that he could read the content of the letter.

Eyes bright with curiosity, Legolas began to read. “A courtier?” he before having it read completely, unable to prevent the chuckle as he look right into his father’s reddened face. “From Rivendell again?” That it was not sent from Rivendell, Legolas obviously knew, the seal of a golden tree was unique.

Thranduil shook his head. “No. From the Golden Wood,” he said, annoyance palpable in every word. “Celeborn should know better than to waste my time with such nonsense.”

Legolas’s chuckles only became more frequent, much to Thranduil’s dismay. “Why is that I doubt it came because of me?” he taunted.

“Legolas,” Thranduil sighed. They knew both well what might come next. “Enough!”

Leaning back into his chair, Legolas spread his legs and allowed the fingers of his free hand to ghost over his hardened cock. “Do you know that it is terrible arousing if you speak like this to me? You should reconsider it.”

It certainly had its effect on him and the skin-tight leggings hardly concealed anything. Not that he wanted it, though. Quite the contrary was the case. He placed the letter aside on a small table, unwilling to read the nonsense written there – jealousy was certainly something Legolas has inherited from his father. “It is entirely not my fault that your reputation – or should I rather say prowess is infamous among the Galadhrim.”

“Indeed it is not,” said Thranduil, coming to stand behind the backrest of Legolas’s chair, stroking his son’s hair affectionately, before he pulled at a braid without warning. “I wonder how my reputation is among those I truly care for?”

Thranduil was not the only one who could play at this game. “Well, I do not want to complain, but –“

“But?” The pull at Legolas’ braid intensified as did the contact of teeth against his skin. Exactly what Legolas had lusted after all the time.

“I think you are growing old,” he stated, lifting his arms to cup his father’s head, catching his lip between his teeth.

“Old?” Surely, Thranduil rose his eyebrows and it was a pity that he couldn’t see. “I must keep pace with my strength. It is our anniversary in two days, remember?” he reminded him, letting go of Legolas. He walked around the chair in which Legolas still sat and took his seat opposite him.

“How could I ever forget?” asked Legolas in all sincerity when his actions absolutely were not. He slipped out of the chair and knelt submissively before his father, letting his golden hair drift and fall over Thranduil’s knees.

A game, not much more and both knew it well.

More often than not he dictated what they did in the privacy of the king’s quarters, and it seemed as if happily Thranduil let go of all responsibilities night after night. ‘I have my fair share of submissive yes sayers for the rest of my immortal life,’ he would often tell Legolas. Although he perfectly wore the mask of the ever-obedient prince in public, obedience had never come naturally to him.

False resentment lit his father’s eyes. “Don’t play coy with me.”

The warning fell on deaf ears. “I thought you liked that,” said Legolas, continuing to undo the laces of the leggings Thranduil wore beneath his robes. “Or perhaps you like that more?” he added, just before he closed his lips around his father’s erection.


	5. The World is Changed

**The World is Changed**

Even from afar the forest looked different to Legolas’ eyes.

He had been gone from his father’s lands for almost a year on a journey to Rivendell and the Golden Wood as well, it had even brought him to towns of men where he never lingered longer than he must.

Whilst the seasons were strong in Imladris and the leaves sailed down on the earth on the wave of autumn, both Lothlórien and Greenwood the Great were mostly unaffected by it.

Yet what Legolas saw, was unmistakably fall – and worse.

The trees gradually began to fall away, skeletons without a crown and life. Decay lingered everywhere and welcomed Legolas with its frosty embrace and howling winds. Mist wafted through the rows of lifeless trees, a welcome Legolas had not expected. A surreal scene, something he had never seen before.

Just before he had departed Lórien’s peaceful forest, its lady had spoken to him, words he had not understood back then.

_‘When the forest fades like the final notes of a beautiful song, dissipating into a colorless void, the king will wither and wane. You know of what I speak, Legolas Thranduilion. You well know about the link that ties your father to his land, and you well know that it is the forest that keeps him safe from harm, afloat in the bleakness of night. Throughout the years, evil prevailed in the everlasting shadows and now its spirits come forth again to poison and to corrupt the lands again. It must be fought.’_

Her earth-shattering voice bellowed in Legolas’s mind as he spurred his horse through a forest he failed to remember, befallen by a strange sickness, withering and waning. Where once birds chirped and deer roamed freely, not a single animal could be heard and cold sweat began to wet his face as he rode deeper into the ghost-like forest. Thoughts coiled around the one that was dearest to him he rode and rode until at last he reached his father’s halls.

The words of greeting that were spoken to him upon arrival were entirely lost to him, handing over his horse to the nearest stable-boy without saying anything at all. Usually, Legolas was polite and friendly, always up for mischief, but now he couldn’t be bothered at all.

Before washing out the remains of week-old dirt and grime, Legolas rushed towards the king’s chambers where he found his father abed. Amidst worn clothes empty bottles of wine and brandy lay, an abundance even Legolas wondered if Thranduil had consumed them only tonight. It perfectly matched his father’s fragile appearance. Beyond shocked, Legolas stared at him for many moments before he announced himself, rushing towards his bedside.

The king was a shadow of his former self, withering just as the forest did with skin grey as stone and dull, lifeless eyes framed by black shadows. His temperature was higher than it had ever been before but the healers could only shrug their shoulders. _‘The nights are restless. We tried, and keep trying to keep our lord’s nightmares at bay,’_ was all they had said before Legolas had entered. Legolas knew what they did not dare to say aloud: _‘the king won’t speak about the matter, nor would he accept help.’_ It was the same information he had heard from Galion earlier that day.

Lies.

And more lies.

Nothing else.

The news was dreadful, but it did not come as a surprise to Legolas – his father never showed weakness, let alone admit such fragility to those that weren’t family. His crown sat on a velvet cushion on the table nearby and despite it being autumn, the leaves and berries were gone. The crown was barren just as the land and all hope that had prevailed within Legolas faded. The situation was worse than he had assumed it was. 

“Father,” Legolas had not addressed him like this for many years. Strength and reassurance were what he needed most, Legolas tried to tell himself, yet he found himself unable to keep the deep sorrow out of his voice. He took his father’s hands into his own, rubbing them until they were a little less cold, kissing the knuckles in hope that they would regain their flexibility from it.

A pained sigh left Thranduil’s dry mouth. “Fatigue does not affect the Firstborn, I know, but I feel tired, Legolas. So utterly tired,” Thranduil said, and it was as close an admission for his illness as Legolas would ever get. “I have not slept for how long I cannot even remember. The walls of my halls are like choking hands, suffocating and restricting my breathing. It is the stars I love best; the sound of nightingales together with the rustling of leaves. No nightingale sings in these lands now and the stars are veiled by everlasting grey. Once upon a time, the forest gave me peace and soothed my mind whenever I felt troubled.”

Legolas stated what he had not even dared to think about before, thoughts swirling like snowflakes in the frosty air. “You are dying.”

“The forest is dying, and so am I.” In the privacy of his chambers, the king was crying until the tears would not come anymore.

Grief and sorrow tarnished Legolas’s usually melodic voice. “And what do you intend to do?”

Father. King. Lover. Friend. Pain sang along Legolas’s nerves. He would not survive the loss of either, least alone all four.

With a sonorous sigh of exhaustion, Thranduil closed his eyes again. “I have no strength left to fight, Legolas. I wish I had, I wish I had fought long ago to the bitter end.” Legolas, leaning over Thranduil’s bed, smoothed a hand over his father's forehead. The skin was clammy and cold to the touch, worse than it had been before. “Malice spreads through the earth in the south. It is gathering its strength and draws closer with every day that passes.”

Legolas was close to tears. “Father! Your people are endangered, we must migrate.”

“Where to? The forest is sick – tell me it is not so?” Thranduil’s voice sounded strangled.

As much as he wished to in that very moment, Legolas would not lie to his father. “I cannot. Perhaps further north, towards the Mountains of Mirkwood it might be better?”

“And what comes after it, Legolas?” For the first time, Thranduil tried to press his son’s hand. “The evil will spread and poison everything that is left of Greenwood the Great. This isn’t our fight, Legolas. It is a fight we cannot win.”

Legolas’s temper rose. “It is our fight and it is your duty to protect these lands. What will happen if we sit here idly in our grief and do nothing? The evil will spread and the world will fall into darkness. The Lady of the Golden Wood has offered me warnings before I came, a strange foreboding I have not understood back then.”

When tears ran down his father’s cheek, Legolas wished he had never lashed out in anger. “I must apologize,” Thranduil whispered, before he drifted back to sleep. 

Healers came and went, bringing fresh water and herbal broth, which Thranduil tried to force down his throat. Since he was too weak to even hold a spoon, Legolas assisted him. He didn’t leave his father’s chambers – not for a week, not for a month, caring less and less what everybody else would think. Gossip was hard to come by, spreading through the palace like howling winds, and he was quite certain the last guard knew exactly that Legolas did not only stay out of duty. It did not matter at the slightest.

Whenever Thranduil was asleep, Legolas wrote in great detail to those he placed his hopes in – to the Lady of the Golden Wood, to Lord Elrond and his folk in the Hidden Valley, even to Curunír in his lofty halls. In these letters, he mentioned and described his father’s desolate state in a way Thranduil would never approve and therefore defying his father’s strict orders. Although he always felt a twinge of hurt, he continued to write. Those were the last beacons of light in a darkness he could not fight alone.

Whenever Thranduil was awake, Legolas would rest beside him and warm his body with his own, kissing the nape of his neck until he could draw a little response. It was the tiny smiles that kept him going, the twitch of lips as he kissed the blistered skin carefully and on days he thought the king looked a little bit healthier, Legolas would tentatively touch him as he had done so often before. He would not believe the nonsense of which Thranduil talked from time to time, that their forbidden relationship was the true cause for all the evil. Each and every word stung, yet only when Thranduil was deep asleep he allowed himself to be shaken by the hurtful words. Legolas was strong and could endure much hardship, but even he reached his limits when for weeks no reply came. Not from Isengard, nor from Lothlórien or Imladris. Hope faded, just as his father did over the course of time, yet never did Legolas stop those susurrating whispers against the crown of his head, hoping that it would lure his father’s mind into a world peace.

“I need you,” one night he said, touching Thranduil’s cheek, which he found wet, with his fingers.

Thranduil’s reply came choked. “As do I.”

Curled on the mattress, Legolas was taller than his father, which usually was not the case, far healthier and stronger, carefully pressing his body against him. The tremor that followed the words came without warning, shaking the once proud king to the core. In the dim light of the burning fires, Thranduil’s eyes appeared almost black from the weird angle that Legolas looked from. “You must not dye. You must not. Cannot. I need you – cannot live without you. I vowed to protect you, vowed to be there for you,” he sobbed, noticing how tiny streaks of silver disrupted the monotony of his father’s eyes, just as silver streams of moonlight pierce through the starless night. He stroked a hand up and down his father’s side as if he was calming a horse, feeling each rib beneath the cold skin.

“And you have always kept true to your promise,” Thranduil was saying the moment Legolas’s hand brushed against his soft cock, tentatively but with reassuring persistence. Of course, Thranduil was irritated, even frustrated perhaps, but for the first time in many days life seemed to return to his otherwise dead eyes. Therefore, Legolas continued to rub the small of his back, to kiss him, whisper to him in the same manner Thranduil had whispered to him as a child. Eventually, his father’s sobs trailed away to normal crying until they finally ceased under Legolas’s constant ministrations. What he had deemed entirely inappropriate seemed to help, so that he deeply regretted not having tried it weeks earlier. It was not only the silence that spurred him on, but also the growing hardness in his palm and the relaxation of his father’s body against his own.

“Legolas, we must not.” There was neither warning nor sincerity in Thranduil’s voice.

“Because you do not want to?” asked Legolas, raising his head so that he could look at his father’s face.

Thranduil shook his head.

“There is no starless road, nor are those cursed who touch their own flesh and blood when consent is so clearly there.” Each word was punctuated by a little kiss; against Thranduil’s eyebrows, his nose and the tear-stained cheeks. “Trust me, father, if it is the last thing you do.”

With effort, Thranduil managed to nod, giving his consent in silence. Twinges of regret began to well in Legolas’ heart upon such openly displayed vulnerability. Just as he had vowed to protect and cherish, he now promised not to abuse such a rare gift. Nothing that night when he took his father amidst emerald silks was about himself or his pleasure, but solely for the king’s well-being. Slow movements dominated the scene, shallow thrusts in a steady rhythm. Pausing – awaiting – pausing again, until the tension began to seep from his father’s body. He wasn’t quite certain if it was true enjoyment on Thranduil’s side or rather surrender. Or perhaps it was both? Legolas wondered, lips traveling from ear to throat and back up again.

As expected, he derived little pleasure from the act itself, though the increased heat of his body appeared to be beneficial to Thranduil’s state-of-mind as every now and then little moans danced through the air, enough reassurance for Legolas to continue.

Their bodies were still pleasantly warm from their lovemaking but soon the last fires would have burnt down and the cold air of night would creep into the chambers so that Legolas wrapped duvet after duvet around their bodies. Thranduil was already deeply asleep, breathing evenly as he had not in many weeks.

Before dawn, a knock disturbed the eerie silence of slumber.

“My dearest apologies,” Galion said, visibly uncomfortable by what he saw, “two messengers arrived in the middle of the night.”

_‘They have come at last.’_

Thranduil’s voice resembled the croaking of a crow. “Who came?”

“A messenger from Lothlórien and Imladris. They said they bear news of great importance. Here,” stretching out his arm, Galion handed the sealed letters over to Legolas.

Eyes switching between Legolas and Galion, Thranduil said, “I do not understand.”

It was no accusation, only the whisper of embarrassment because his father well understood what it meant, what Legolas had done without his consent.

Apology teetered on the tip of Legolas’s tongue. He knew what he had done was what he deemed best for all, yet he clearly had went against the king’s orders. “Darkness and evil poisons the forest and corrupts the land. We must not allow it, yet you yourself had said you cannot. Neither can I – not without assistance from those I trust.”

For the first time in many days, Thranduil smiled. “I know,” he whispered, stroking Legolas’ cheek affectionately. “You did what I could not, for what I was too proud for.”

And then Thranduil fluttered his eyes shut and went softer than Legolas has ever seen him before, smiling just as if he awaited a kiss from Legolas’s lips. In front of a bristling Galion, Legolas obliged, unable to deny his father anything, before he began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wished to create a better story for you. Work and illness prevented it.
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU TO MY AVID BETA READER <3


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